


The Violet Night

by CoffinBeans



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Canon, Resurrection, resurrected
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 09:24:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16365203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffinBeans/pseuds/CoffinBeans
Summary: Her laughter fills the air as the stench of death and brimstone fills the clearing. The ever growing crack glows in the ground, eerie and purple, smoke and purple flames licking at the opening. A pale black burned hand grabs the edge, and the priestess leans to grab hold of the person, yanking him up. A hairless skeleton of a man is dragged from the hole, corpse pale and screaming in agony, burning black tar covering his skin, smoke rising from his skin. He curls into a ball at the priestess’ feet, screaming and terrified, and she cackles with glee as he cries, newly risen, at her feet.





	The Violet Night

The wind howls like a mourning bean sidhe, bringing a frosted autumn breeze sweeping dead leaves through the cold eerie blackness of the dark forest, drowning out the quiet sound of muffled screams and heavy stomping of feet. The moon shines a dim silvery light down upon the mob of black clad people, a small barely visible fingernail grin in the sky amid a sea of crystal stars in a black velvet sky. The group trudges along tirelessly, forest debris catching in the torn fabric of robes and getting underfoot as they stomp through the underbrush, dragging behind them a bound and gagged trio of struggling shouting adults.

They reach a clearing, where already another group dressed just the same waits. Fine black robes torn from the trek to the clearing, bone white masks like skulls on their faces. Torches line the clearing in a large circle, fire glowing blue and casting a cold pale dancing light upon them. The ground is cleared of all flora and fauna, a flat burnt black expanse, a ritualistic circle drawn upon the ground in lines of pale purple and white crystals. In the center, surrounded by another circle of runes, a pile of bloody wet skulls sits like a menacing beacon, surrounded by tall thick black candles, burning purple flames motionless in the wind. There is a foul metallic petrichor, sour and brutal, on the wind from all the blood and death permeating the air.

The trio is brought forward to kneel before the skulls, and their eyes widen as they see beyond the torches, beyond the clearing, to the stacked pile of headless ripped apart corpses. They struggle harder, desperate to escape, shouting uselessly from behind their gags.

“Quiet!” They still, gazing ahead as sharp knives come to rest at their throats.

A woman stands before them. Her cold black eyes are milky and blank, and her dark skin is waxy and gaunt. She’s small, both in her short stature and thin build, emaciated with her bones easily visible. She looks like a corpse for all that she moves and speaks, and her arms are coated thickly in sticky red of blood, shining near black in the pale light. A pattern of bones is painted in white upon bare skin, and the woman wears only a ragged torn skirt, a belt of skulls around her hips, and a thick necklace of bones is the only cover for her small breasts.

Her dread-locked and braided hair swings in beaded thick coils behind her as she saunters forward. She takes the middle of the trio by the chin harshly, black sharpened nails digging into his pale bruised face. She turns his head up, down, left, right; then repeats the action with the other two.

“They will work.” Her voice is deep and her breath smells foul, like unnatural darkness and decay.

She stalks away from them, hips swinging, bones clattering on her waist and around her neck. The wind blows her skirt around her thin legs. The trio is unbound, but they are held in place, hands gripping with bruising strength on their arms to keep them in place, kneeling with their hands behind their heads, heads pulled back to expose their necks.

A glance passes between them, barely seen in the periphery, as the woman starts a strange jerky ballet-like dance and starts to chant in a guttural language, like some foul demon tongue. The fire of the candles and torches leaps wildly in the air, growing in columns, and as if it were a signal the three immediately lean forward and shoot upward in a single rocking motion, breaking free. The cursing breaks the woman’s concentration and she stops her dancing and chanting to watch the unfolding scene.

The middle man is grabbed by two of the men, and one advances upon the woman and the other. “Run!” He yells as he struggles against their hold. “Run!”

The woman grabs the boys hand, dragging him away as he struggles. “Father!”

“Run!” The captive man says again. “Run!”

They vanish with the pop of apparition, and the one who was going after them curses colorfully. “Enough” the priestess commands, and everyone stills. “We only need one.”

She grabs his chin again. “I’ll make your family suffer, traitor.” She promises, and then she drags him before the pile of skulls once more.

She takes her jagged blade across his neck in a swift motion that sprays his blood across the skulls in a flood of crimson. She drops him, and his body flops like a fish out of water for a moment, before stilling, his blood pooling around his head and neck, staining the leaves rust red. She continues her dance and chanting, hands wet with his blood. The crystals glow and the earth starts to shake. The forest comes alive, branches reaching out and skewering the frightened black clad people around her.

“Mistress!” One yells in horrified sobbing as he’s pulled into the earth. “Mistress please!”

The priestess pays no attention as one by one her loyal frightened followers are swallowed up by the splitting earth and living trees. When the clearing is empty but for her, the woman’s dance stops and so does her chant, but everything still rumbles and quakes.

Her laughter fills the air as the stench of death and brimstone fills the clearing. The ever growing crack glows in the ground, eerie and purple, smoke and purple flames licking at the opening. A pale black burned hand grabs the edge, and the priestess leans to grab hold of the person, yanking him up. A hairless skeleton of a man is dragged from the hole, corpse pale and screaming in agony, burning black tar covering his skin, smoke rising from his skin. He curls into a ball at the priestess’ feet, screaming and terrified, and she cackles with glee as he cries, newly risen, at her feet.

Lord Voldemort is back.


End file.
